Empire of Dragons

by Valerio Massimo Manfredi

  ‘I think that’s a sensible idea. When do we leave?’ asked Uxal.

  ‘People who have nothing to hide travel during the day, so I think you should wait for evening before you go.’

  The men found a clearing in the shade of the palm trees and went about various activities to while away the time: washing their clothes in the river, carving a stick, honing the blades of their swords or daggers, braiding straw to make a basket.

  Publius preferred to backtrack for half a mile down the river bed, along with a companion.

  ‘You’re still thinking of that horseman, aren’t you?’ Rufus asked him.

  ‘You know when you’ve got a mosquito buzzing around you with that continuous, insufferable droning, and it doesn’t bite and you keep thinking, “It’s going to bite, it’s going to bite” and you can’t think of anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Well, that’s the way it is. I’d give anything to know where he is and what’s going through his head right now.’

  They reached a rise, a kind of mound in the landscape from where they could look out over a vast sweep of land, but all they saw was a caravan in the distance, probably headed for the oasis of Khaboras.

  ‘I think he’s gone about his own affairs. We won’t see him again, trust me,’ said Rufus.

  ‘I hope that’s so, but my heart tells me differently. I’m going to stay out here a bit longer. If you want to return to camp, go ahead.’

  Rufus stayed with him, but nothing happened: the horseman did not emerge out of that wide, empty space. And as the sun rose towards the centre of the sky, the scorching surface of the desert created strange illusions, fleeting forms that danced over the bleak contours of the rocks, dust-demons that twisted and wriggled like damned souls under the sun’s merciless rays.

  ‘Let’s go back,’ said Rufus after several hours of futile vigilance. ‘We’re waiting for a ghost. As I told you, he’s gone off on his own.’

  Publius grudgingly agreed and the two men walked along the gravelly shore of the torrent in the direction of their camp. ‘You know?’ he said after a while. ‘I’m sure that as soon as we turned our backs, he appeared. That son of a bitch. Somewhere out there in the middle of the desert . . .’

  ‘You’re obsessed,’ replied Rufus lightly. ‘I wouldn’t think about it if I were you. He can appear and disappear as much as he likes. All I care about right now is slipping in with some caravan, reaching a port on the Ocean, boarding a merchant ship sailing west and getting back to my house in the Sicilian countryside in two or three months’ time. You could come with me if you like. It’s a beautiful little stone house, with a stream that turns the grinding stone in the mill. There’s an orchard, olive trees, a pasture for the sheep. I keep chickens too. My wife gathers up a full basket of eggs every morning.’

  ‘I live in the country as well,’ said Publius. ‘Near Spoletum we’ve got fields of wheat, a nice vineyard and a forest of oak trees where the pigs can root around. I make a mean ham and my sausages are legendary.’

  ‘Don’t start me thinking about it!’ moaned Rufus. ‘It’s best not to get our hopes up. We’re not out of danger yet. The worst is yet to come, I fear. You heard what the commander said. He thinks this oasis is the ideal place for people to come looking for us.’

  Publius wheeled around, as if to surprise someone behind him. Someone who wasn’t there.

  ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Rufus, shaking his head. ‘You won’t give up, will you?’

  Publius said nothing until they had reached the camp.

  The sun-dazzled afternoon passed in a strange, uneasy silence, because each one of them was immersed in his own thoughts, as he considered the dangers of entering such a busy place.

  Those among them who had suffered the most in captivity, those who were the least well disposed to living under any kind of oppression – Quadratus and Balbus certainly, but even Septimius, and Antoninus as well – wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better to prolong their liberty by choosing to stay in the wild rather than risking everything in a village where they might lose their freedom for good. But they were well aware that they must all share the same destiny and that salvation would be for one and all or for no one, and they knew that their little army had a chief, Commander Aquila, legate of the Second Augusta Legion, one of the most valiant generals of the empire, and the best leader they could hope for.

  They sweated in the shade of the palm trees in the heavy atmosphere, and every now and then they’d cast a furtive glance at Metellus to check on his humour, but the expression of their commander, absorbed in planning the moves for the following days, was impenetrable. He was determined to avoid any possible problem and to work out the safest itinerary to bring them to freedom once and for all.

  IT WAS NEARLY dusk the next evening when Uxal came back, along with Septimius. He held out a straw bag and exclaimed, ‘Bread! I’ve brought you bread, valiant combatants. What do you say to that?’

  ‘Bread?’ repeated Lucianus. ‘I think I’ve forgotten how it tastes.’

  ‘Here it is, mama’s boy!’ said Septimius, showing him the loaves. ‘There’s enough here for a whole legion!’

  ‘How did it go?’ Metellus asked immediately.

  ‘Well. Not bad, I’d say. We met up with an Indian merchant, a certain Daruma, and Septimius worked for him and earned this sack of freshly baked bread. He’s due to leave in a couple of days. He intends to go downriver for a day or two until he reaches a port where he can board a ship and reach the Ocean.’

  ‘Did you tell him about us?’

  ‘I said I was expecting friends who wanted to set sail as well, but that we couldn’t afford to rent a ship on our own. I haven’t gone into details yet, but I have prepared the ground.’

  Metellus turned to Septimius. ‘Did you notice anything suspicious? Did you have time to take a look around?’

  ‘Not really. I saw merchants, labourers, slaves, people of all imaginable races: Persians, Judaeans, Armenians, Arabs, Commagenians, Adiabenians. I even found someone who spoke Latin, a Syrian from Hemesa, who told me all sorts of interesting things.’

  Uxal began to cut the bread as Lucianus lit a fire from the embers he carried inside a palm-wood container, covered with ash.

  ‘What kind of things?’ asked Metellus.

  ‘First of all, that Odenatus, as he was returning home with the legions of Palmyra and his Osroenian auxiliaries, attacked Shapur, stole away the plunder he’d accumulated during his military campaign and inflicted heavy losses on his troops. It seems that Shapur himself survived out of pure luck.’

  Metellus looked at Septimius with an uneasy expression. ‘That is good news, but how did you come to speak of such a topic?’

  ‘We were drawing water from a well and I heard him speaking Latin to a slave, so I asked him where he was from and he told me. You know how these things go. After a while he was telling me that he was in the provisions convoy when Odenatus caught up with Shapur and gave him a good thrashing before the Persian chariots loaded up with booty could cross the bridge on the Tigris.’

  Metellus pounded his fist on his thigh. ‘Good job, by Hercules! I wish I’d been there to teach him a lesson, that decked-out rooster, that pompous peacock, that lily-livered son of a bitch . . .’

  ‘I thought the same thing,’ continued Septimius, ‘and I also thought that if Odenatus had attacked him any earlier we might have been liberated. Maybe even the emperor would have been saved. Who knows!

  ‘Anyway that Syrian knew a lot of things. He said that Gallienus hasn’t shown his face in the East, that he has surrounded himself with Christian ministers and that in any case, south of Anatolia, it’s Odenatus who’s in control, as if he were an independent sovereign.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ retorted Metellus. ‘Odenatus is an excellent general, but he’s very ambitious and his wife is even more so. And she’s got him wrapped around her little finger . . . What language does this Daruma speak, anyway?�
�� he asked.

  ‘Uxal spoke with him in Persian, but I think I heard him haggling with a Syrian in Greek, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Let’s go, then. I want to meet him.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No point waiting. We’ll eat the bread on the way. Let’s go.’

  They started walking towards the oasis, where at that moment a multitude of campfires were being lit, casting a reddish glow on the palm leaves that bowed downwards. As they passed, they saw the groups of the various caravans busying themselves with dinner: Arab women with tattooed faces, young Syrian slaves, groups of Armenians wearing long cloaks of light blue, ochre and black over their grey tunics, Indians with smooth hair and crinkly hair, Judaeans with their white linen head-dresses, even Ethiopians. A buzz could be heard everywhere around them, along with the laughter and cries of children scurrying between the palm trunks and hopping the myriad streamlets of the irrigation canals. But neither Metellus nor his men allowed themselves to be distracted by that serene, inviting sight, allowing their eyes to roam only to pick up on any suspicious details.

  ‘That’s Daruma’s camp,’ said Uxal. ‘Down there, near the brick houses. Let me go first.’

  The others slowed their pace until they were nearly standing still, waiting until Uxal signalled to them that it was safe to approach.

  Daruma was at the centre of a clearing where his men were roasting mutton over an open flame. He wore a full-length ochre-coloured tunic that covered his massive frame and fat belly without hiding them. Silver rings dangled from his ears and his hair was gathered at the nape of his neck. He seemed to be about fifty, to judge from the numerous grey hairs that contrasted with the raven-black colour of his locks.

  Metellus greeted the Indian in Greek: ‘Chaire!’

  ‘Chaire,’ replied Daruma in the same language. ‘Welcome to my modest camp, stranger.’

  He spoke an Oriental-style koinè, with a strong but indefinable accent, the type of Greek that everyone used from Byzantium to Alexandria, in every warehouse of the Persian Gulf, the Red Sea and the southern coast of Arabia: a language understood mostly by non-Greeks that a Greek from Athens would never be able to speak.

  ‘I imagine that you are the head of your small caravan,’ said Daruma.

  ‘My companions have put their trust in me,’ replied Metellus, trying to adapt to the expressions of the man before him.

  Daruma sat on a mat and invited his guests to do the same. Metellus and his men crouched and then crossed their legs with evident difficulty.

  ‘I have no cushions with me!’ said Daruma, smiling. ‘These mats are much easier to transport on long trips and they take up so little room.’

  ‘The mats are fine,’ said Metellus with a hint of embarrassment.

  ‘Your comrade has told me that you’re looking for work.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why we’re here,’ replied Metellus. ‘We were transporting a load of fabrics and skins to the port of Hormusia when we were assaulted by a band of brigands. We managed to escape with our lives, and later found these three asses, which had fled into the desert when we were attacked. It’s a miracle we survived. We’ve managed to live on what little we could find to eat and drink. We have no money, but we’re seeking a passage to the coast, where we plan on taking ship. We can do a little of everything. There are skilled craftsmen, blacksmiths and carpenters among us. We can work as porters or . . .’

  A servant laid a tray of roasted meat at the feet of his master, who looked around at his guests. ‘You must be hungry,’ he said with a peculiar expression, halfway between enquiring and curious.

  ‘Yes,’ Metellus said without hesitation. ‘We are hungry.’

  Daruma gestured to his servant, who passed around with the tray. Each man took a piece of meat and was about to sink his teeth into it with the avidity of someone who hasn’t had a decent bite to eat for ages, but Metellus’s withering gaze obliged them to make a show of self-control. Metellus took a portion as well and began to eat it calmly under their host’s attentive eye. Metellus could feel Daruma’s eyes upon them; he knew that he was observing him and his men with meticulous, albeit well-disguised, scrutiny. He realized that there was nothing in their appearance, their expressions, their wary glances that escaped him.

  Daruma also had his servant pass round an amphora of palm wine, surprisingly cool and sparkling.

  ‘How do you keep it so cold?’ asked Metellus to revive the conversation.

  ‘By continually dampening the vessel that contains it. As it dries, the water cools the amphora and the wine inside. I learned that from the desert nomads, who are accustomed to living in conditions that no city dweller would ever be able to tolerate.’

  Metellus thanked him. ‘We’re greatly obliged to you for your kindness and hospitality. I hope to find a way to pay you back . . .’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Daruma suddenly, staring closely into his eyes.

  Metellus hesitated.

  ‘You’re not used to lying,’ Daruma pressed on, ‘or to sitting this way. You’re used to giving orders and being obeyed without even opening your mouth. You come from the West, then, almost certainly a military man. A Roman officer, I’d say . . . I’d bet on it, actually. And these, apart from the old fellow, are your men.’

  He spoke softly so that only Metellus could hear him. Metellus tried to hide his discomfort, but his right hand started to slip almost imperceptibly under his tunic towards the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ Daruma said without even looking at him. ‘It is the custom never to betray one’s guests where I come from as well. As long as you eat my bread, you’re as safe as if you were in a fortress.’

  Metellus put both hands on his knees and drew a long sigh.

  ‘I might think that you were a group of spies sent into the heart of the Persian empire, but I can see from the hardships you’ve suffered, the scars you’re trying to keep hidden under your rags and the terror in your eyes, that you’re fleeing from a grave threat. If I said that you’re the group who escaped from the Aus Daiwa camp – whom the Persians are searching for in every corner of this region – would I be very far from the truth?’

  ‘What do you expect me to answer you?’ said Metellus.

  ‘Nothing. I know I’ve hit the mark.’

  ‘Why have you offered us your hospitality, then?’

  ‘Pure curiosity. These long crossings are deadly and I never miss an opportunity to occupy myself with someone else’s affairs if I find them exciting enough. In any case, I didn’t believe a word of what the old man told me, or what you said, although he’s a much better liar than you are.’

  ‘And now that you know, what will you do?’

  ‘Do you have children?’ asked Daruma, as if he had not heard him.

  Metellus looked at him in surprise at the sudden change of subject, but replied, ‘A son. But I don’t know where he is or what has happened to him.’

  ‘So you don’t have a wife.’

  ‘I did. She was murdered.’

  ‘By the Persians?’

  ‘The Romans.’

  ‘The most logical question would be: why remain loyal to these Romans, then? You’re a high-ranking officer, obviously, and you must have information that’s worth quite a lot. But you would naturally have already sold out if you were so inclined, to save yourself from imprisonment and oppression. I think I understand. You’re one of those Romans one sees carved on arches and columns: inflexible, upright, intrepid and a little stupid.’

  ‘That may be,’ replied Metellus stiffly.

  ‘Don’t let it get to you. I’m just trying to figure out what you’re like. I have to get to know who I’m travelling with, don’t I?’

  ‘Do you mean that—’

  ‘What’s your name?’ Daruma interrupted him again.

  His way of abruptly jumping from one subject to another was driving Metellus mad, but he replied without hesitation, ‘Marcus Metellus Aquila.’

  ‘Pronoun
ced in your language, that must be a name that makes a man tremble just hearing it.’

  ‘It’s a name that has never been dishonoured.’

  ‘I’d imagined as much. Now listen. Tell your men they can sleep in that tent down there, near the camels. You’ll be my guest.’

  Metellus bowed his head. ‘I’m accustomed to sharing everything with my men.’

  ‘This time you’ll make an exception to please me. I’d say I’ve earned it.’

  ‘I don’t think I’d be able to sleep. I must supervise the guard shifts personally.’

  ‘No guard shifts. This place has already been scoured three times from top to bottom by Persian soldiers. They’ve turned over every stone. I don’t think they’ll be back. What’s more, my guards don’t take kindly to other people doing their job for them. If you don’t like it, you can go back to where you came from.’

  ‘No,’ replied Metellus. ‘I accept and I thank you, in the name of my men as well. Will you take us with you, then?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘You’ll soon know.’

  Daruma got up and made his way towards his tent.

  11

  UXAL ACCOMPANIED THE MEN to their quarters and Metellus remained alone next to the campfire for a little while. It was a lovely night, he was the guest of a well-to-do merchant and he had dined on oven-fresh bread, roast meat and cold wine. His men had eaten well and were graciously lodged. There was good reason to hope that Daruma would take them with him and that they might reach the Ocean and, perhaps, return to their homeland. It almost seemed that the long imprisonment, the death of the emperor and of a comrade, the cruel suffering they’d borne, were all just a nightmare, a bad dream destined to vanish with the rising of the sun. But there was one thought that made him harshly aware that everything was real: his undiminished longing for his lost spouse and for the son whose fate he knew nothing about.